


sometimes, just sometimes

by heavensfallingaroundus



Series: bits and bobs [2]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: I guess you'll find out, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23220829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: He likes to believe he’s the exception.That he’s the only one who can make Richard Madden beg.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Series: bits and bobs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668343
Comments: 42
Kudos: 72





	sometimes, just sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> Oh well. I seem to be on a roll.  
> If you're looking for someone to blame, here they are—in no particular order:  
> \- my favourite Glaswegian singer-songwriter and [this song](https://open.spotify.com/track/2c9OnhCwDVpKZWjOPqKiA8?si=NU890ZkdTYGzprzcxBtBPQ) especially  
> \- fucking Coronavirus  
> \- Richard Madden. Like, the general concept of him.
> 
> I wrote this in a few hours. I have no idea.

_Sometimes, just sometimes  
Well, maybe more than some of the time  
I'm on a false ego trip  
Insecurity is rife  
I'm not the ideal person  
To be lecturing of life_

“Everything’s closed, now, eh?” Richard prompts, nodding in the general direction of Boris on the telly.

“’parently so,” Taron replies, taking a generous swig of his beer. He wishes the telly was off already.

“Emilia texted in the groupchat—theatre’s done for. For the next three months at least. S’pose it makes sense.”

“It does, but that still fucking blows, love. I know how much you were looking forward to that. Are they cancelling the show altogether or just pushing it?”

“God knows,” Richard replies, eyes to his phone, blue light from the screen hitting his beautiful features. Three-day old stubble. His nose. Mmh. “But hey, they just announced that Chalamet’s gig is definitely still happening, when this is all over. There’s that, at least.” He looks up. Smiles wickedly.

Taron scoffs, blowing air inside the neck of his bottle. Grins. “Glad you’ll still get your yearly dose of twink, darling,” he says, sardonically. “Still think he’s too young for you. Then again, you do have a type.”

Richard gazes at him over the top of his own beer bottle. “Jealous, are we, Duckie?” he asks, with a half-smile.

“Not in the slightest,” Taron lies. Richard guffaws, shifting closer to him on the couch. Arm around his shoulders, firm grip on the back of his neck. A raised eyebrow. Not buying it.

“No, seriously,” Taron insists, determined. He can smell craft IPA and tobacco on Richard’s breath. Oud from that stupid cologne that he uses to appear more sophisticated than he actually is. “Last one was _very_ cute, too.”

“Which one?” Richard asks, closer still, before planting a kiss on Taron’s cheek.

“Gen Z? _Teen Wolf_? Stupid name?” Taron says, a tad harsher than he would have liked. Richard chuckles against his skin, then bites down on the flesh of his cheekbone, making him shudder.

“Froy?” Richard offers, moving away slightly to put his beer down on the coffee table. When his right hand is free, he interlaces his fingers behind Taron’s nape and looks at him intensely. Still looking way too smug for Taron’s liking.

“That’s it, yeah. _Froy_ ,” Taron repeats. The name tastes weird on his tongue. Stings. Like when you eat too many kiwis. “Is he even legal?”

Richard rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Who do ye take me for, exactly?”

“Oh, _please_ , Dickie. How old?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Who says I’ve done anything with him?” Richard prompts, innocently. Taron feels him smile against his cheek when he kisses it. Plush lips teasing at the corner of his mouth.

The _audacity_.

“Spare me the pleasantries, Madden. You would never have said no to _that_ ,” Taron says, confidently, moving away slightly and holding Richard’s gaze as he, too, leans to the side and puts down his beer. It’s a bit awkward—Richard won’t let go of him. “How many times?” Taron feels a fire lighting up inside him.

Richard raises both eyebrows at him.

Taron pushes him to the side and swiftly straddles him, making a point. Chests pressed together. Mouth to Richard’s ear. “ _How_ _many times_ , Dickie?” he breathes, hotly. Then, he feels Richard’s hands snake from his bum to his waist, tracing him, grounding him. He inhales sharply. Holds his breath as he waits for the answer.

“ _Four_ ,” Richard says, as he ever so slightly rolls his hips. Thick cotton, douchebag-athleisure trackies failing miserably at hiding his arousal. Taron still doesn’t breathe, still doesn’t lean back to look at him. There’s more coming, he feels it.

“…in one night,” Richard adds, after five seconds that feel like five weeks.

Taron considers that for a beat. Lets his mind wander.

Hotel room. Richard. That _boy_ —tight, hairless body. Big eyes, wide, sky-blue, looking adoringly at Richard as he drops to his knees and opens his lovely mouth.

On all fours, on his back, bent over the desk. Riding him.

The noises.

“He wore me out. _Insatiable_.” Richard is really playing the game, it seems. Hard against Taron’s inner thigh, firm grip on his hips. Grinding again.

“Begging prettily, I bet,” Taron offers, planting a series of wet kisses in the crook of Richard’s neck, arousal pooling in his lower abdomen. Richard attempting to drill a hole in his adductor.

“So beautiful, you have no idea…” Richard whispers, hands moving down again, thumbs teasing at the elastic band of Taron’s trackies. Teeth scraping at Taron’s clothed deltoid.

“Did he call you _daddy_?” Taron asks, breathing against Richard’s neck, nipping at the unnecessarily perfumed skin against his lips, nuzzling Richard’s neck stubble.

Richard’s cock hardens a tad more still—scorching, vehement length pressed against Taron’s thigh. God knows how he’s even able to keep it together, by this point. Keep the act up—as he registers what this spontaneous physical reaction means.

“Hmm-hmm,” Richard hums, teasingly, nodding as he strains his neck upwards to capture Taron’s lobe between his teeth. Hands travelling past the frontier of Taron’s bottoms. An appreciative, raspy moan as he realises that Taron’s not wearing boxers underneath. Palms cupping both buttocks, eager fingers gripping and kneading, pushing Taron down, making him grind on his cock. “He _asked_ ,” Richard continues, matter-of-factly—but also somewhat breathless. Palpable arousal in his voice. “Couldn’t refuse, could I?”

“Do you… mmmh, God I _hate_ you,” Taron groans, as Richard chuckles softly, low and absolutely pitiless. Taron’s body betrays him—bum jutting out, pressing against Richard’s hands, legs widening almost imperceptibly.

No. Not today.

Breathes in, out. Grabs a fistful of Richard’s hair and dips back down, like a bird of prey. Now on the other side of Richard’s neck, marking him there as well. “Do you _like_ that, Richard?” _Is that why they keep getting younger?_

“Maybe,” Richard replies, keen hands pushing Taron down, looking for more friction.

Taron wonders. If Richard can come like this.

“Maybe?”

“Sometimes,” Richard clarifies.

“Sometimes?”

“Just… sometimes.”

Taron grinds down, ripping a deep, soul-shattering groan out of Richard. He emerges from his cosy spot inside the crook of Richard’s neck. Comes up for air, and to look at him.

And what a sight he is. Parted lips. Dewy, juicy, ripe strawberries. Flushed cheeks. Dilated pupils—oil spill in a tropical sea, dark and unstoppable. His neck. Angry-red bite marks all over it, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

Grinding, grinding. Shamelessly fucking the tight space between his own rock-hard quad and Taron’s hamstring.

“Just sometimes?” Taron asks, thumbs tracing Richard’s jawline. The rough feel and noise of the stubble underneath his skin, threatening to make him lose it. That fucking beard. He wants Richard to grow it back. Misses the burn after a proper stubbly rim job.

The tips of his fingers, feather-like, trace the sides of Richard’s neck. He knows what to look for—an almost unnoticeable nod. Richard’s teeth capturing his lower lip. He grinds down more forcefully, and Richard thrusts up to meet him. Eyes wide and glazed. Silently pleading.

Taron wants to hear it, though.

He likes to believe he’s the exception. The black swan in an endless pond of vanilla sex, shallow minds and empty pretty faces. That he’s the only one who can make Richard Madden beg.

“Please, T,” Richard implores, grinding harder and faster, tilting his head forwards, leaning into Taron’s touch as his breathing stutters. Taron grins, lets his palms completely adhere to the flaming skin of Richard’s neck, to the marks that _he_ put there. Drags his thumbs over Richard’s Adam’s apple, kneading slightly. “ _Please_.”

He thought he could resist it. Keep his sanity intact, and just watch Richard come undone. He thought he didn’t need it.

He thought wrong.

His hands around Richard’s throat, squeezing. Not too slack, not too tight.

Richard’s eyes, rolling back into his skull.

The power trip—

“Touch me,” Taron commands, guiding Richard’s head backwards slightly, towering over him. Tightening his grip, just a tad. Making him wheeze. So pretty. Lost in the feeling. “Now, Richard. _Touch me_.”

Richard nods and Taron feels him swallow. Hot flesh moving like wet clay underneath his fingers.

Hands shoving Taron’s bottoms off his arse, forcing them further down until he’s free, until Richard can settle one hand back on his hip and wrap the other around his cock. Thumb teasing at the tip, pulling down the foreskin and smearing precum down the shaft— _God, yes, good, you’re so good_ —and Taron doesn’t even know if he said all that out loud, but he assumes he has, since Richard’s thrusts become more desperate, and his hand moves more frantically to get Taron off… and Taron can see it. How _close_ he is.

Witnesses it being painted on Richard’s face—his orgasm, breaching through like cuts on the canvas of his soul. Like a Lucio Fontana.

Spelled out in bold, white capital letters over an autumnal Scottish Highlands landscape. Like an Ed Ruscha.

Except Fontana and Ruscha have got _nothing_ on Richard Madden climaxing with Taron’s hands around his throat.

And Taron feels his own wave coming, devastating. All-powerful. Exactly like he feels, at the moment. Riding his ego trip. Fucking Richard’s clenched fist. Long fingers pressing all his buttons, touching him _just_ right.

He likes to think that Richard doesn’t touch anybody else like this. That this is just how _they_ are.

He forgets himself. Forgets that his hands are supposed to be doing something. Even forgets about the woes of the modern world, for a split-second. It’s just them, tangled up and twisted like wet bedsheets just out of the wash. Coming together as if this is their natural state. As if this is how it’s meant to be.

Richard makes a mess of his trackies. Taron makes a mess of Richard’s hand, Richard’s charcoal grey T-shirt that is most likely worth a grand and dry-clean only—and also of Richard’s neck and jaw. What a pretty picture. Jackson Pollock reincarnated, he is. Definitely wasted as an actor.

And then Richard pulls him down for a wet, messy kiss, and tells him.

“See,” he whispers, hot breath on Taron’s lips. The shadow of a smile. The smell of their fading arousal, thick and pungent. “There’s the stuff I just like _sometimes_. And then there’s you, Duckie. With you… Fuck. With you, it’s all of the time.”

**Author's Note:**

> The art references? Yeah, idk either, to be honest.  
> Oh and by the way! The twink story is a real one, they do know each other. Although we're not actually sure whether anything happened, if you know what I mean.
> 
> I hope you're enjoying this quarantine content? Oh and, by the way, I'm officially accepting prompts for this series, so please: if you have ideas, send them my way. Drop a sweet sweet comment or check me out on tumblr, always and forever @applesfallingfromblondehair on there.
> 
> Love you allll.  
> Take care,  
> C xx


End file.
